


Firelight

by TheWiseMansFear



Category: SolyceAlterra/ZevCaspian
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:48:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27052915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWiseMansFear/pseuds/TheWiseMansFear
Summary: These are ocs from my friend and I’s Tiktok. Mostly just posting for our followers who were interested.For more search the hashtags #solycealterra and #zevcaspian on tiktok !
Relationships: Solyce Alterra - Relationship, Zev Caspian - Relationship
Kudos: 1





	Firelight

[TW: thoughts of suicide]

He felt guilty, which, as it turned out, was  _ not _ better than nothing. Sol would have taken yesterday's apathy a thousand times over than have today’s self-loathing for even one more instant. It was heavy, as if his chest bore a millstone in lieu of a heart and the weight was one he didn’t think he could bear overlong. 

_ Why are you like this? _

__ _ No one wants to be around such a gloomy person. _

__ _ You won’t find a partner acting like this. _

__ The words bounced around his skull in familiar tones, voices that, in theory, should have been comforting, but never had been. Phantom criticisms of parents and tutors and  _ friends _ .

_ You’re hard to be around. _

__ _ Stop being lazy. _

__ _ Serafino never acts like this. _

__ His arm swept across his desk, an action he could have sworn he hadn’t orchestrated. The crash of his equipment was loud, but not so jarring that it stopped the ghostly badgering. 

_ Dramatic. _

__ _ Try to be more positive. _

__ _ Just smile.  _

__ The deep breath he took burned. Not a single thing was being solved by sitting here. He thought of the dark night, the vast open sky that awaited above. He could already feel the cold, deadly bite of winter on his skin.The heat on his fingertips would hurt in contrast.

__ _ You don’t have any reason to be sad. _

__ _ There are people dying everyday and you can’t even be bothered to get out of bed? _

__ _ You’re so ungrateful. _

__ Maybe it was a pain he deserved.

Because it wasn’t as though any of those statements were false. His life was not bad. He had everything he could possibly want. Half the crew had stories that made his sound like a nursery rhyme. There was no reason for the despair he was so often mired in and he hated himself for it.

Rising, he lulled the small fire in the stove, ordering it not to misbehave while he was out. It crackled once in response. Satisfied, or as satisfied as one could be with a gaping pit in their stomach, he took his staff from the wall and left the cabin, barefoot and already shivering. 

He passed Serafino’s quarters and was tempted to knock, tempted to reach out, or, at the very least, check in on him under the pretense of making sure he was warm enough. But they weren’t children anymore. Fino knew as well as he did that heat was paramount. His twin would see right through him, and that was not something he wanted right now.

Sometimes he missed the days when Fino had pretended to be stupid.

The steps creaked beneath his weight and the sound of the sea called him upward, beckoning like siren song. Such a far cry from sprawling jungle and humid marsh, thousands and thousands of miles from anything familiar. And yet their voices still carried. 

His fingers tightened around the staff and it lit, fire blooming like vivid roses. They vined up his arm, weaving around his tricep and across his naked back. It curled in the palm of his opposite hand, a serpent poised to strike. The wind whipped the flames, sending eerie orange tendrils of light out across the deck. He watched them mingle with the moonlight for a moment before shifting his gaze over his shoulder. 

The captain was at the helm. Their eyes met and Sol felt a burning in his gut that had nothing to do with his ability. But, as he’d become so accustomed to doing, he put it out with a wash of self-deprecation. Zev Caspian was not within his reach, nor should he ever be. Solyce had a way of disappointing people that he had no want to subject his captain to. 

“You mind?” he inquired, spinning the staff and propping it against his clavicle, waiting.

The man leaned over the helm, features shadowed by the kiss of Sol’s fire. “Not at all,” the captain hummed. “Just don’t strain yourself.”

He swallowed a scoff. The whole point of being up here was to push himself beyond his limit, to feel something other than melancholy, even pain. Bonus points if the cold made him sluggish enough to sleep through the night.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain,” he said instead, long steps carrying him to the freest space available, far enough from the mast and ropes that might hinder. 

And then, eyes on the sea, he began.

_ Dancing is for courtesans.  _

He took a long, slow breath, felt the frigid air pebble his skin.

__ _ If I catch you again, it’s to the military with you.  _

__ He fell into his first stance, one he’d learned during basic combat training, because of course he’d been caught again, and of course his father had kept his word. He’d had many things beaten from him in those years, but dancing hadn’t been one of them. If anything, battle had taught him to be both fierce and graceful.The duality of skills making moves that were meant to be beautiful, deadly, and vice versa. He did not regret that.

The fire in his empty hand snapped, a whip that could and would eat flesh from bone, his staff spun, alight, fast enough to become a blurred wheel, illuminating the ship. He watched the flickers of light on the water, there and gone like fireflies swallowed between cupped hands. 

His heart staggered, fighting against the brumation working in his bones. Despite his prowess with his element, winter was a foe too formidable. Sweat evaporated from his chest but froze on his stomach, poetic in it’s contrast. Perfect. Hurtful. Life and death.

What would that be like, he wondered? He’d seen so many fading flames, watched the light leave the eyes of comrades while he had their blood hot on his hands, felt it chilling on his cheeks as hot breath begged him to do more than he could. Times like those, like these, Sol wondered which of the two he was closest too. 

For as much flame as he had in him, he was known to be cold. 

And the cold was so fucking heavy. It held him back, held him down, made the world bitter and dark. He didn’t want to be that. So, why? What was the point of winter without the thaw in spring? 

He must have screamed, because the sound rattled him. His throat was raw from taking in the frigid air and his fingers wouldn’t unhand the staff. His legs trembled, muscles all quaking. The ocean looked back at him and he let his flames simmer and go out, the black of the water looking all too promising. 

His chest hurt. 

He was tired.

He wanted to go home. But  _ home _ had never been a place.

His numb fingers traded the staff for the ship railing. He didn’t remember dropping the weapon, didn’t recall taking the few paces forward, but he was here now, bent, lungs heaving, lulled in a dark way, in the  _ worst  _ way.

What would happen first? The drowning or the torpor? Would he sleep through death?

His laugh was soft and disgusted. 

Even if he found out, there’d be no one to record the findings. And where would be the sense in that? Just another waste of time.

It was hard to manage his limbs, but he forced his back straight and stepped away from the luring water. He tried to summon fire, if only to heat his arms back to working, but his element was thoroughly pissed off and it was too much effort right now to coerce it.

When he bent to retrieve his staff, his body shuddered and fell forward, both arms reaching out to catch himself, but only one managing it. This left him in a lopsided, half-crouch that  _ could not _ be flattering. 

He did not dare glance at the captain. It was one thing to dance in front of him, but to fall? 

Oh. There was the heat. Too bad it was all in his cheeks. 

It was through sheer force of will that he stood, staff in tow, eyes down. His feet felt buried in mud, but he made it to the stairs only to hesitate. He was no longer within the man’s line of sight, but he still felt seen. He felt-- what? Accepted? Respected? 

Warm.

“Good night, Captain,” he dared. 

The response was soft beneath the wind, but it was there, and that was enough. “Sleep well.”

For a moment, as he descended, he allowed himself to entertain the notion that should the captain tell him to sleep well every night, he would. 


End file.
